Page 42 of Don't Tell Teacher

‘You don’t know?’ the nurse asks. ‘Nobody has put a needle into your arm recently?’ She rolls back on her wheelie chair, opens a drawer and holds up a plastic-wrapped syringe. ‘Like this one?’

Tom shakes his head.

‘Have you had any knocks or bumps recently, Tom?’ the nurse asks. ‘Played with anything sharp?’

Tom looks between the two of us. ‘I haven’t done anything. It wasn’t me.’

‘You’re not in trouble, Tom,’ I say. ‘We just want to know how you got these marks.’

‘Would you rather the two of us talked alone?’ says the nurse. ‘Without Mum? Sometimes that can be easier.’

Ice water pours into my stomach. ‘What are you implying?’

‘I’m not saying—’

‘Yes you are. Believe me, I know what an accusation looks like. I’ve met with social services enough times to discuss Tom’s father.’

‘Tom, what can you tell us about these marks?’ the nurse asks again, her voice soft. ‘They’re rather unusual. Surely you can remember something?’ She surreptitiously glances at the clock, probably remembering the fifty patients waiting outside and knowing that if she doesn’t finish with us soon she’ll have to stay past midnight.

‘I don’t know,’ says Tom again.

‘Did an adult do this to you?’ the nurse asks.

Tom quickly shakes his head.

‘Did someone do this to you at school?’ I ask.

Tom looks at his lap.

‘Listen,’ says the nurse, glancing at the clock again. ‘I need to make a report about this.’

‘Yes. Please do. Can we book in to see another doctor? Tomorrow maybe?’

The nurse changes instantly from kind, cuddly nurse to tired, overworked nurse.

‘Not just a medical report,’ the nurse says, her voice hard. ‘Social services will need to be informed.’

‘I suppose … yes, that makes sense.’ I feel sick. ‘Could you make a note about Tom’s school? Ask someone to talk to the headmaster … his teacher. As I said, there was an incident today.’

‘His school? I don’t think—’

‘Where else could it have happened?’ I ask. ‘It’s the only place he’s away from me.’

The nurse doesn’t say anything. But I can almost read her thoughts.

Impossible.

Lizzie

‘Impossible!’ my father shouts. ‘Good God, Ruth. Can’t you tell the truth, for once in your life? Lizzie didn’t even take the exam – how on earth could she have got into grammar school?’

My mother deftly changes the subject. ‘Did you pick up those wine glasses? I need them for the dinner party tomorrow.’

‘Ruth, this isn’t normal.’

‘Let’s sit down and have supper,’ says Mum, putting on her best ‘good housewife’ smile. Then her voice goes hard. ‘Don’t start an argument, Harold.’

‘I’m not arguing, Ruth. I’m trying to talk to you.’

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